


Loose Lips

by Steals_Thyme (Liodain)



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kinkmeme, M/M, Trope fodder, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liodain/pseuds/Steals_Thyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rorschach vs truth serum</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loose Lips

Their investigations have led them to a run-down motel, wedged between Little Italy and Chinatown. Its mildewed walls and blown-out lighting makes it look uncannily like a horror film waiting to happen, and since Rorschach is heading to fifteen minutes late for their rendezvous, it's starting to feel like one, too.

Nite Owl prowls the dilapidated corridors; most of the rooms are empty, dead quiet when he presses his ear to the door, but this one isn't. He can hear voices, low and menacing, and the crisp retort of a flat hand impacting skin. No doubt Rorschach will insist he has everything under control, but Nite Owl sucks in a breath anyway, storms through the door with enough force to take out the heavy that was standing behind it. 

The King of Skin turns at the commotion, tosses an empty syringe aside. His crumpled linen suit is spattered with the night's violence. 

Rorschach himself is bound to a chair and leaning forward, his weight pulling his shoulders tight; there's a trickle of dark blood oozing from under his mask. His scarf and trench have been pulled aside, baring his neck. Nite Owl feels a flash of alarm; if he's been put out cold it'll make things difficult, but then Rorschach raises his head, looks sharply over Nite Owl's shoulder.

Nite Owl wheels around, catches a wild right hook against his forearm and puts the King's second henchman on the ground, cold-cocks him with a controlled fury. He turns back, low in a combat stance, throwing crescent sharp between his fingers and anger riding hot in his blood.

The King has Rorschach's chin in a cruel grip, another syringe sunk into his neck.

Rorschach grunts. His mask crashes inward.

Nite Owl shouts at him, something wordless in urgency, and drives the King back with reckless arcs of his blade. The King retreats quickly, shucks a pistol from the waistband of his slacks, brandishes it. Catching a bullet at this range would be dangerous, even with the protection Nite Owl's armor affords. Rorschach catching it would be worse. He circles warily, keeps himself between the gun and his partner.

"You have the worst timing," the King says, backing up towards the door. Then he laughs. "Or, maybe the best. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

"Not likely," Rorschach says. His voice his hoarse; his chin and teeth are bloody. 

Nite Owl knows he should be chasing the King, but the labored edge to Rorschach's breathing is worrying. He gets him untied, hoists him to his feet. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"In pain," Rorschach tells him. He flinches, shakes his head slowly.

*

Archie is moored on the motel roof. Nite Owl settles Rorschach into the co-pilot chair, gives him a cup of water and a wad of paper napkins to clean himself up. All he can think of is the syringe.

"Do you know what they gave you?" he asks, tries to keep the apprehension out of his voice. They both know the kind of chemicals the King of Skin deals in. He sets Archie towards home and swivels his seat to keep an eye on Rorschach. He's rucked his mask up high. Most of the blood seems to be from his nose, but it's seen so much abuse that Dan can't tell if it's broken this time.

"Don't know," Rorschach says. "Didn't see fit to tell me."

"This could be really bad," Dan says, pulling his cowl off. He runs his hand through his sweaty hair. His stomach keeps dropping in jags of dread. "How are you feeling?"

"Nauseous," Rorschach replies. He seems surprised at what he's saying. "Neck feels bruised. Nose hurts. A little dizzy. A little aroused." He snaps his mouth shut, horror plain in the rigidity of his body. "I didn't want to say that."

"Wow, uh," Dan says, blinking. "Yeah, maybe a bit too much info. But useful, I guess, probably means it was an aphrodisiac you got stuck with." And a double dose of it, at that. As if tonight wasn't a disaster enough already.

"No," Rorschach says, and his hands have tightened on the arms of his chair. "That's normal."

"What?" Dan frowns, not quite sure why they're still talking about this.

"I normally feel this way around you." Rorschach makes a sound like he's choking on his own tongue, gets to his feet and paces to the back of the ship as though he can outrun his own words.

" _What?_ " Dan says. He's tired. It's been a long, stressful evening; he must have misheard, or misunderstood, because the alternative is—

"Stop talking to me," Rorschach says. Dan has never heard him sound this way, the absolute panic in his voice. He is visibly agitated, moving erratically. "Stop asking questions. I can't help—"

"Oh," Dan says. "Oh, no."

Rorschach butts his head against the curve of Archie's wall, folds the brim of his hat. "Sodium pentothal," he says to the metal panelwork, gritting the words out from between his teeth.

"Mm." Dan covers his mouth. That's a lot worse than he'd thought it would be. "And probably an upper, to get you talking." The dashboard pings and Dan takes a moment to direct his attention elsewhere, takes a deep breath as he switches to manual and sets down in the Owl's Nest.

"Can't slow my thoughts down," Rorschach says. "Feel hot and cold and uncomfortable in my skin. Can't stop shaking. Can't help telling you that. Humiliating." He hits the door release, but instead of heading to the kitchen stairs, he turns toward the service tunnel. He pauses, plucking his trench collar and scarf back into place, as though he's only just noticed they were awry. "Going home. I can't stay here." 

Dan catches his arm before he can run off. "You can't go," he says. His voice echoes in the cool chamber of his workshop, lends an authority to his words that he doesn't feel. He's not one to order Rorschach around. Nobody is. "What if a stranger talks to you. A neighbor. It would be a disaster."

"Don't touch me. I don't like it." Rorschach shudders. "Don't like the way it makes me want to touch you in return."

"Oh. Really, now." Dan releases Rorschach's sleeve, feels his face warming in a pleasant, guilty flush. No wonder King of Skin seemed so entertained. "Wow, this sure is something, huh?" he says, trying for a casual tone, or at least affability.

"I don't like the way you said that." Rorschach stares at him. His mouth twitches; his whole body is tremoring with a brittle tension. "Shut up."

Dan makes a zipping motion over his mouth. Rude or not, Rorschach is right: the best way to protect his dignity and privacy would be to remain silent, leave nothing for his drug-coaxed mind to hook onto. He gestures towards the stairs up to the house.

"Thank you," Rorschach mutters. He goes up; Dan gets into some slacks and a t-shirt and then follows.

Rorschach sits himself at the kitchen table while Dan makes him an extremely strong coffee. He has no idea if it will help encourage his partner into sobriety, but he has no better ideas. The whole situation feels exploitative, and he shudders at what the King of Skin might have had planned for him.

"Your owl obsession is ridiculous," Rorschach says. He's looking at Dan's kitchen clock—which is, of course, an owl. His leg jumps constantly, heel drumming out a beat against the linoleum floor. "Commitment to theme bordering on pathological."

Dan just raises his eyebrows in warning—hey, watch it—and slides the coffee in front of him. Rorschach sucks it down, throat working as he swallows the sugary sludge at the bottom. He licks his lips, and Dan has to turn away and busy himself at the sink.

"Sometimes," Rorschach says. "I can barely stand to look at you."

"Oh," Dan says—just a safe 'oh', nothing to it. Maybe the truth serum has worn off already, smothered by the denseness of Rorschach's secrets, and now it's time to save face. He can deal with that. It's going to sting like hell, but it's hardly unexpected.

"Difficult to show resolve when all I can think about is wanting you to... hrg. Nite Owl. Daniel."

The agonized note to Rorschach's voice makes Dan turn and look. He's bowed over the table, back a long arch, hands fisted in the tablecloth. Dan wants to ask if he is okay, desperately so, but he knows it's too vague a question; he could say anything in response and nothing he'd actually want to.

"Caffeine definitely not helping. Need some distraction. Talk to me. Phrase your questions carefully, keep them inane. Nothing about me. Or yourself." He makes an irritated sound. "Why is your shirt so tight."

"Um," Dan says, and suddenly can't think of a damn thing to say.

Rorschach squirms in his seat. He's panting a little—short, open-mouthed breaths, like he's in pain. Dan finally realizes that it's over-stimulation, set off by Dan's proximity, amplified and fed back by his own exposed attraction. It's a manifestly physical thing, wracking him where he sits.

"Okay, this isn't going to work," Dan says, urgently. He can't pretend he's unaffected by what Rorschach has said—could still say—but this is the absolutely worst way his fantasies could have come true. "Upstairs. Get in the guest room and you can sleep it off, or tell your secrets to the walls, or whatever you want... to..." Dan shuts his mouth before he can finish the sentence, but it's too late.

"What I want to do," Rorschach says, teeth clenched. "What I want to do. I want to take you to your bed and ruin you. And I want to stop. Telling you these things."

"Oh, hell. Sorry, I'm sorry." Dan steadies himself, because that was not anything he ever expected to hear coming from his partner's mouth, and it would pretty much floor him on a good day. He sucks in a breath and swallows, then risks some contact and hauls Rorschach up off the chair. He intends to shove him out into the hallway and chase him upstairs—then maybe go frantically jerk off in the basement—but Rorschach turns under his hands, grabs a fistful of Dan's shirt.

"I know what your skin must taste like," he says. "Engine grease. Leather. Salt-sweat. Sometimes I imagine how I would tell you. It wasn't. Going to be. Like this." He punctuates by yanking at Dan's shirt.

"You wouldn't." Dan shudders out a long breath. He knows a few truths of his own. "You would never." 

"I would never." Rorschach pulls at Dan's shirt again, makes him stoop so he's closer to eye level. "This is unfair."

Dan offers him a grim smile, untangles his shirt so he can straighten up. Rorschach's hands come to rest on his collarbone, then dart away into fists. "Yeah, it is. And, you know, not exactly how I'd imagined it, either."

"How did you—" Rorschach says. He licks his lips. "No, don't want to know." And then he says, "Tell me."

"No," Dan says, not unkindly. "That's a terrible idea."

"Awful." Rorschach sways on his feet, leans in toward Dan as though he's going to kiss him. Instead, he says, matter-of-factly, "I feel ill." His complexion is almost as ashen as his mask.

"Do you want," Dan says, aborts, and tries again. "Go upstairs. I'll bring you a glass of water. There are towels in the bathroom and fresh sheets on the guest bed."

"They'll smell like you," Rorschach says. His despair is starting to bleed out, leaving him tattered and worn.

"They smell like laundry detergent," Dan insists.

"Of course you'd think that." Rorschach shakes his head. "I want to go up. Won't be able to sleep, though. I feel compromised. Weak, emotionally. Want you to come with me. But I don't... I didn't want to say that. Didn't want to ask."

"I know," Dan tells him. "I wouldn't even consider it, the state you're in. I wouldn't take advantage of you like that." 

"Wish you would," Rorschach says. "Absolve me of this. Would take me a long time to forgive you. And myself. But I wish you would."

Dan takes off his glasses and pinches at the bridge of his nose. The emotional whiplash sure is something to contend with. "You're really testing my willpower here, buddy."

"Yes," Rorschach says. "Have a sick fascination with your responses. Makes me feel wretched, but can't stop. Wonder how far I can push you before—"

"Rorschach—"

"—before you put your hands on me, or your mouth. Wonder how it would feel, to bring a man like you to his knees. Wonder how long I could stand it before I hurt you. It always ends in hurt, Daniel."

"You want to hurt me?" Dan says, before he can catch himself. He thinks he can understand that, in the framework that his partner operates. Lust sublimated into violence. He doesn't really want the details, though.

"No," Rorschach says. "I want to do much, much worse." He curls a shaking hand around the back of Dan's neck, pinches the span of skin there. He leans in, puts his mouth near Dan's ear. "Wouldn't last long. Inexperienced. But know the ins and outs."

"Oh, god." Dan half-laughs, only so he doesn't sob. He feels helpless under Rorschach's fingers, trapped between hunger and horror. "Did you seriously just make a pun?"

"No." Rorschach mutters. "I jokingly made one. That's the point of them. Wasn't very funny. Not important."

The tension evaporates. Dan groans and drops his forehead onto Rorschach's shoulder, his cheek brushing against the stiff canvas of his lapel. He smells of the city: ozone and pollution and rain. "Okay," he says. "I'm going to do the honorable thing and go to bed. You're welcome to stay. In fact, I want you to."

Dan feels him touch the back of his head, tentative, barely disturbing his hair. 

"In the guest room," Rorschach says. 

Dan sighs in relief. "In the guest room." 

*

Dan strips and gets into bed, turns his face against his pillow and breathes, tries to stop Rorschach's voice looping in his head long enough to fall asleep.

From the next room comes the tell-tale creak of mattress springs. 

*

Dan's shirt is rumpled and only half-buttoned, but his hands are unsteady so he just leave it be. He gives up on taming his hair, takes a deep breath and knocks softly at the guest room door. He's half-expecting no reply, Rorschach already up and gone and not to be seen for a month solid—but from inside comes the muffled sounds of bedding being shifted around, and a gruff "wait."

The door cracks open. Rorschach stands barefoot, in pinstripes and an undershirt, mask pulled up to his cheekbones. Dan swallows. "Morning. I, uh. I was about to make breakfast," he says. "You want some?"

Rorschach dips his head in a long nod, lets the door swing open a little wider. Dan steps into the dim space. Outside, a fall shower cracks itself against the windowpanes. 

"How are you feeling?" Dan asks, hesitantly.

Rorschach doesn't answer immediately, which Dan takes to be a good sign. "Aching," he says. His voice sounds anemic, roughness scoured out. "Embarrassed. Still a little too... frank. But not compulsive any more. I think."

"What color is the sky?" Dan says.

Rorschach glances at the window; his mask makes a series of perplexed daubs, then he catches on. "Green," he says. "And grass is blue."

"Did, ah," Dan says, and he can't quite believe he's going to ask this, but they're both half-dressed and the room is heavy with musk, and Rorschach is circling him, herding him into the room as neatly as he would any criminal, so here he goes. "Did the sheets smell like me?"

"Yes." Rorschach advances on him, makes him step back until the back of his knees hit the bedframe.

"What did you do about it?"

"I'm not going to tell you that."

"Good," Dan says, as Rorschach pushes him down onto the mattress, pins his shoulders and straddles his thighs. "Good. Are you going to—mh—" Dan arches, gasps as Rorschach scrapes his teeth over Dan's Adam's apple, blunt sensation of it singing across his skin.

"Going to what?"

Rorschach's breath is hot on his neck. Dan closes his eyes, grins up at the ceiling. "Ruin me," he says, dropping his voice into a low growl.

If Rorschach's affronted by the impression, he doesn't let on. "I would never." 

"Liar."

**Author's Note:**

> In retrospect, this is basically a sister fic to [Acting Out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13401). (warning, is early fic and is of, uh, dubious quality. Yeah, worse than this.)
> 
> Watchmen kinkmeme is [here](http://watchmen-km.dreamwidth.org/) \-- take a prompt, leave a prompt!


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